Choices
by Partly
Summary: It's wrong to kill.


It's wrong to kill.  
I know that. I _believe_ that.  
But people are trying to kill me and I don't want to die.

Gunpowder hangs heavy in the air and its acrid taste burns as I fight to catch my breath. The cubicle I'm in provides cover but no protection. A computer fan drones off to my right and the air vent in the ceiling blasts cold air at irregular intervals. I filter out those distractions, as I do the pounding of my heart and the warm stream of blood that runs down my arm.

There's a whisper of movement and I pull back, merging with the shadows. A shade, blacker than the surrounding darkness, creeps across the empty opening of the cubicle and becomes the silhouette of one of the men hunting me. I hold my breath and try to melt into the wall behind me.

The shadow hovers, indistinct, for five heavy heartbeats. The dim light from the exit sign glints off the barrel of the pistol he carries. My only weapon is a letter opener I'd found on the desk. I wield it like a knife but I don't move. The tic-tic-tic of the air vent announces its activation. The man before me jumps at the sound and peers up at the ceiling just as the cold air kicks in. He swears and takes two steps back toward me.

In one thought, I stand and jab the letter opener into the base of his skull. He collapses without a sound. The air vent moans off, silence returns, and blood pools around the now lifeless body.

It's wrong to kill.  
I know that. I _believe_ that.  
I still kill.

The pool of blood grows and I pull the body further into shadow. I pick up his weapon and a quick search nets me three extra clips. It's a solid gun and the feel of its weight in my hand calms me.

Despite the dark, I recognize the body as Brian Jennings. His psychological profile lists him as a borderline sociopath, obsessive and unpredictable. In the two months I'd been surveilling him, I hadn't seen him do anything that would earn him so much as a parking ticket. In the past 12 hours I've seen him murder three people and help orchestrate a plan to kill thousands more.

It's wrong to kill.  
I know that. I _believe_ that.  
I'm not sorry he's dead.

I peer around the edge of the cubicle opening. Dark stillness is all I see. The blood from my wound trails sluggishly down my arm. The air vent ticks three times and the cold air pushes at me. Still, I wait. A slow count of twenty doesn't change anything, so I pull back and consider my options.

There aren't many. Few of them are good.

None of them are right.

The smart move would be to make a run for it. Get out and let CTU know what's happening. The emergency exit is ten feet away. As soon as it opens, the klaxon will sound. It may notify the fire department or even activate the sprinkler system. I can't decide if the confusion will make me easier to kill or aid me in my escape.

And if I do get out, then what? They'll just run for cover or, worse, push up the timeline. I don't have all the details of the plan, just that it involves high explosives and a desire to destroy as many lives as possible. These are not people who will just slink quietly away into the night. The only thing keeping them here is the desire to kill me.

If I get away, so do they.

It's wrong to kill.  
I know that. I _believe_ that.  
How wrong is it to allow others to kill?

I ignore the exit and wait for the tic-tic-tic of the air vent to cover the sound of my movement as I head into the maze of cubicle offices. Even with Jennings dead, there are five hostiles remaining. I fight to recall the layout of the floor, not daring to stand up and look for the obvious landmarks that would help orient me. The power may be out, but the emergency lighting is more than good enough to kill by.

Voices erupt in the distance, an argument I can't quite understand. The partition I'm following ends in a larger corridor of cubicles. The voices carry to me from somewhere to my left. I'm almost to the corridor when a radio crackles off to the right. Someone swears and a figure walks into the opening. He stops, obviously fighting to pull a radio out of his pocket.

It's wrong to kill.  
I know that. I _believe_ that.  
But even more, I don't want to kill.

He's in a chokehold before he knows I'm there. He tries to fight, but I fall backwards, pulling him with me, hitting the floor hard and wrapping my legs around him. The noise we make seems very loud, but I hold the choke for a full fifteen seconds after the struggling stops. Then I roll away, gun at hand, ready for an attack.

There is none. The voices beyond are still arguing. The walkie that had fallen to the floor crackles again, heralding a voice that demands "Smitty" and Jennings return to the group. By my count, that group is now down to four. I check my gun and make sure that the extra clips are in easy reach.

It's wrong to kill.  
I know that. I _believe_ that.

I take a deep breath, hold the gun at ready, and head toward the voices.


End file.
